BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

I actually enjoy flying.

Well, allow me to qualify that – I used to enjoy flying.  Unfortunately, not so much anymore.  I’ve talked about this in the past, and the reason I gave for air travel falling from favor was more centered upon the BS one must deal with on the ground – such as the “hurry up and wait” factor as well as the TSA just to name two. Don’t get me wrong here… I’ve met many wonderful TSA folk. People who are doing a job and try to make it run smooth and easy because they understand how trying the whole process can be. But, there are also those – and it seems, unfortunately, that they make up the majority – who are on a power trip and take great delight in being assholes.

Well, I’m not here to talk to you about the TSA today. I’m actually here to talk to you about Airborne Waitresses. I’m sure that euphemism will get me in trouble, but what the hell. Apparently I am born to be in trouble.

My story begins on Friday last. I was bound for Texas to present at the Ostara Festival and sign books at Sisters of the Earth and Sea. Like the rest of us, bookstores have been hit by the downturn in the economy, therefore they do what they can to cut costs. In this instance, they booked me on the redeye. No biggie. I can sleep when I’m dead.

So, anyway, I was up at 3AM and then E K & the O-spring dropped me off at the airport around 4:20. After standing in line, checking my bag, standing in line again, farting about with TSA, having my CPAP inspected, swabbed, detected, tested, and otherwise scrutinized, I was on my way to my gate. Eventually, after I spent time sitting around with other half-snoozing folks the airline announced that the flight was oversold and that they needed to bump at least three people. Normally I jump on this since they get you there anyway AND give you a voucher. This time, however, I sat still. But, as the minutes ticked by they became more and more adamant that they had to bump some people. And so, finally, I gave in and tested the waters. Once I was certain they could get me to my destination at a reasonable hour – especially since I had a connection to make – I told them I would fall on my sword for them.

So, I stood off to the side and set the wheels into motion that would notify those who needed to know that I would in fact be arriving later than scheduled. Then, a completely different ball started rolling, and as it continued downhill it picked up both speed and a healthy dose of ka-ka. Why? Because it needed to fling poo on me when it reached the bottom.

The American Airlines gate agent called my name and told me that they didn’t need to bump me after all. I had stood there watching them put standby passengers on the plane (or so it appeared) – something I thought odd to begin with, given that they had bumped three confirmed passengers, but whatever. Who was I to complain? I was going to be receiving a $300 voucher. Or, so I thought. Now, instead of the voucher I was being put back on the flight.

Having watched the prior mess, when the agent handed me my original boarding pass I asked, “Am I still sitting in the same seat?”

“You should be,” he told me.

The phrase “should be” obviously should have told me something. But, in my defense, it was early and I took his words at face value.

I boarded the plane and made my way back down the length of the MD-80 to my assigned seat – 31D. Of course, it was occupied. I spoke to the lady, then asked the Flight Attendant standing there where she would prefer that I sit since the seating had been messed up due to the shifting of passengers.

This particular Airborne Waitress was something on the order of 137 years old, and had a permanent scowl stapled to her face. Seriously. She already had 10 years in on the job when the Flight Attendant in the picture on the right was hired.

At any rate, she immediately yelled, “What?”

Yes, you read that correctly. Yelled. Not said, asked, uttered, muttered, or otherwise spoke. She yelled.

I answered, “31D.”

“What’s your seat number?” she yelled again.

“31D,” I said, again, slightly louder.

“31E?” she bellowed.

“No ma’am, 31D.”

“D? D as in dog? 31D?” she yelled.

“Yes ma’am,” I replied, notching my volume up a bit more, although nowhere near yelling as she was. “That’s what I said. 31D.”

Instantly she pulled off her face, and let me tell you the flaming death’s head was no prettier than the scowling prune. Suddenly she yelled even louder, “Don’t you take that attitude with me!”

I was taken aback. I’ve logged so many miles in the air that my flying odometer has rolled over more times than I can count, and never have I dealt with such a thing. I’ve had flight attendants flirt with me – one of whom was even dead set on having my company for the evening when we landed (she didn’t get her wish, much to her disappointment. Good thing too, as E K would have killed her, then tortured me for several weeks until I expired.) I’ve had them ask me to help during a period of heavy turbulence when passengers in my row were wigging out. I’ve even sat and traded recipes with them.

But, never had I been attacked by one.

Until now.

I looked at her and said, “Ma’am, I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to give you any attitude. I just want to know where you want me to sit.”

She glared at me, then rolled her eyes and muttered something unintelligible, then proceeded to yank some poor woman’s ticket out of her hand.  A moment later she started screaming at her instead of me. The next thing I knew she was demanding that the woman move across the aisle and let me sit where she was sitting. I looked at the woman and said, why don’t you just stay where you are and I’ll sit over here. I immediately plopped into the seat and buckled up. Psycho Stewardess glared at me, but left it at that.

For the moment.

By “for the moment”, I mean a few minutes later she repeated the incident in extreme detail for some other passengers who were put back on after having been bumped. Up to and including a stern lecture about how all because of them the flight was going to arrive at DFW later than scheduled.

When she went forward, we all looked at one another, and chatted quietly, using various four letter words to describe the insane wingnut in a uniform. The general consensus was that she needed a Valium, or  more preferably cyanide. My point being, this wasn’t just me – all of us in the back of the airplane thought the woman had lost her mind and was undoubtedly the rudest flight attendant on record.

And, just to prove us correct she had to get in one last psycho moment, by screaming at a teenager to lift his tray table when we were on approach to DFW. Unfortunately, she picked the wrong kid to jump on. Seems he was a special needs individual and couldn’t really comprehend what it was that she was yelling at him about… And he was sitting in the window seat. Momma was in the aisle seat between them and she instantly intervened.

Of course, the flying bitch still had to have the last word. She yelled at the momma that she, “should have told her at the outset that he was special needs.”

For the record, instead of being late we landed 30 minutes early and had to wait on the tarmac for 15 minutes for a gate to be free.

I actually have a theory about that. I suspect the Captain pushed that airplane as hard as it would go because the rest of the crew probably called him up and said that if we didn’t get there soon they were going to chuck the Misanthropic Airborne Waitress out the hatch at 34 thousand feet.

You know what? They would have had plenty of help.

More to come…

Murv

One might think I am digging into the archives and pulling out a line from the Twilight Zone movie. But, then, that line was actually “Wanna SEE something really scary.” Still, I can see where there might be some confusion.

The real story here is something that happened a few years ago that makes me wonder if common sense is a thing of the past. What brought this to mind was the fact that I have a note on my “to do list” that I need to print out my flight info and itinerary for an upcoming trip.

You see, as we know, I travel quite a bit to do book signings and the like. Very often this travel takes the form of climbing aboard an airplane. It has been my contention at times that I’ve logged more miles in the air than some flight attendants I know. While that’s certainly an exaggeration, I still think it gets my point across. I fly a lot…

So, there I was, in an airport, in some city, somewhere. That’s about as detailed as I can get because I make so many connections on some of these flights that they all run together. I can usually tell you which airports will have a Caribou Coffee (my preference over Starbucks) but that’s about it. My travels are just one big blur otherwise.

Anyway, there I was at my gate, waiting to board. I’m not sure if I was coming or going to be honest. But, that’s not really important. What is, however, is what happened as we lined up, checked through, and started down the jetway to the airplane.

A pair of kids were in front of me. Now, when I say kids I mean twenty-somethings. Like it or not, twenty-something is a kid to me. If you are twenty-something, get over it. (I’m saying that because I recently insulted a teen-something by pointing out that a song she was raving about was on the Top 40 better than 15 years before she was conceived. The amusing part is, when she eventually arrives in her 40’s, she understand…)

So, anyway, there we were plodding down the jetway. Shuffle, shuffle. Wait. Shuffle, shuffle. Wait, wait. You know the drill. In such close quarters you can’t help but hear conversations around you. Of course, I’ll admit that I eavesdrop all the time anyway. I’m a writer. But, my point is that I simply couldn’t help but overhear the young lady lamenting the fact that she was seated several rows behind her co-worker, instead of next to him.

“I wonder if we can ask the flight attendant who is seated in 12B*,” she said.

As it happened, I was the person assigned to sit in 12B. Feeling magnanimous, purely because I know what it’s like to travel so much and have to sit next to people you don’t know – (remind me to blog about the woman who slept on my shoulder for two hours, and no, it wasn’t E K) – I spoke up.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Believe it or not, I’m sitting in 12B.”

“Really?!” she exclaimed as she turned around. “Would you be willing to trade seats with me?”

“Sure,” I said. “What’s your assignment.”

“18A.”

“Good deal,” I replied. “I’ll take 18A and you take 12B.”

“Thank you!” she said.

“No problem.”

Now, you’d think that would be the end of it, but if it was then this wouldn’t be much of a blog, would it?

A few seconds passed and the young lady turned back around and said, “Here, take this so you know where to sit.”

The “this” as it turned out, was her itinerary. It wasn’t something she needed, apparently, since she was on the last leg of her flight, however, that’s not the issue. I told her I could remember 18A without having the slip of paper, but still she insisted. And, as you might have guessed, even THAT is not the issue here.

I looked at the paper and sighed. Then I folded it up and held it in my hand, because I was about to convince her to take it back.

“You know, Gwen,” I said. “You really need to be a little more careful.”

She turned around with a surprised look on her face. “How did you know my name?”

“I know all kinds of things about you, Gwen,” I replied. “I know that your last name is Harlan. I know that you live on Sandpiper Avenue  in apartment 3D. And, you know what? I have your phone number too.”

Gwen backed away from me as far as the crowded jetway would allow. “Who are you? You’re scaring me.”

Her male traveling companion was glaring at me and trying to puff himself up a bit. I was at least heartened to see that chivalry wasn’t completely dead.

“Good,” I told her. “I want you to be scared, because you just made a huge mistake.” I held the itinerary back out to her. “You just handed me, a complete stranger, a document containing all of the information that I just spouted back to you, and more.”

It took a second, but the oh shit expression appeared on her face and she took the offered itinerary back from me.

“I guess that was pretty stupid, huh?” she mumbled.

“Yes,” I replied. “No offense, but it was. For all you know I’m a sociopath. I could be a rapist or a serial killer.”

Sheepishly, she asked, “You aren’t… Are you?”

“Fortunately for you, no. I’m actually a guy who writes novels about sociopaths, so I’ve done a lot of research on how they think. But, again, for all you know I could just be telling you that.”

She said, “Well, you look normal.”

I nodded. “They always do.”

Gwen sat in 12B and I sat in 18A during the trip. She also gave me as wide a berth as she possibly could – which is saying something on an airplane – when making a trip to the restroom later. I know she thought I was “old  creepy guy” that day, and I’d like to believe she still does. Why? Because maybe she’ll think twice before making that mistake again, for the next time instead of a harmless novelist with too much info in his head, the “old creepy guy” might really and truly be someone to fear.

More to come…

Murv

* For the record, I’m just pulling that seat assignment out of thin air. I can’t remember what it actually was… Also, the name, etc are made up too. I can’t remember those either, nor do I want to… And, before you ask, the answer is yes. This is where part of the conversation that took place at the NOLA library in LITB/TEOD was gleaned. The proposition portion of that  fictional convo was taken from a different incident,  with a different girl, at a different airport.

Like I’ve always said – some of this crap I just can’t make up…